The Harlot's House
by Royal Typewriter
Summary: This is why society is so quick to judge, as it only sees black and white. I, for one, prefer the spectrum of color illuminated by these lights. Fee's in Paris, and it's her turn to have her story told.
1. Chapter 1

**The Harlot's House**

**Rating: **K+, which could change somewhere along these lines.

**Summary: **Basically, it's Felicity's turn to have her story told. We all know she was headed off to Paris, but what happens when she gets there? I'm not sure what Libba Bray had in mind, but I've got a few ideas.

"_We caught the tread of dancing feet,  
We loitered down the moonlit street,  
And stopped beneath the harlot's house._

Inside, above the din and fray,  
We heard the loud musicians play  
The "Treues Liebes Herz" of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,  
Making fantastic arabesques,  
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin  
To sound of horn and violin,  
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind."

**-Oscar Wilde, "The Harlot's House"**

**___________________**

Prologue

It is in my nature, I suppose, to be contrary. If one were to tell me one thing, I would automatically assume the opposite for the sake of argument. However, there are certain aspects of life that cannot be denied, no matter how much I like to oppose them.

Whoever said 'City of Lights' was spot-on; I will give them that without hesitation. Again, knowing my disposition, this is saying something. Paris is beautiful, for lack of better word. Everything about it appeals to the wanderer in me, and I regret leaving England with such haste less and less every day. Indeed, there was hardly a gap in time between graduation and my departure. One moment, we were in the midst of flurries of goodbyes and congratulations at Spence, and the next, we had all gone our separate ways.

It is better this way, I expect.

Gemma has long since left for America—New York, as she tells me. University will suit her well, assuming she is able to get past the sexism she will most likely encounter there. Women going to school—such a novel concept for people, apparently. Who knew there was more to being female than spending one's entire life perfecting the necessary skills to attract a husband? That and kowtowing to ridiculous standards, constantly tiptoeing about trying not to commit some trivial faux pas that will mar one's reputation for life. This is why society is so quick to judge, as it only sees black and white. I, for one, prefer the spectrum of color illuminated by these lights. Here, it is easier to be who you are. Perhaps someday other countries, other people, will be able to grasp the concept of individuality, rather than this conformity they've placed such a stranglehold on for centuries.

Truly, if there were ever a place for me, this is it. Paris excites me—I've only just arrived, yet I'm raring to go and partake of these grand experiences that surely await me. The people, the ideals, the sights…! I cannot bear to sit on the sidelines for one more moment when so much is happening around me. This charm, this beauty, this life—I simply must become a part of it.

And as of this very day, I will. I am a new girl for a new world, and fully ready to take on every second of it.

I am Felicity Worthington. Today, my life begins.

**Short, yes, but as previously stated, it's only the prologue. I have so many ideas for where this story's going, but of course, I have to make sure people are actually **_**interested**_** before I really get into it. Therefore, any thoughts, comments, suggestions and the like should be given to me posthaste via the Review button. ******** Look forward to the first actual chapter, coming soon. Can't wait!**

**-Katie**


	2. Chapter 2

**The Harlot's House**

Having become fully at ease in my new home, I awake each morning eager to embark on some sort of adventure. So far, I have not been disappointed. Truly, this place is so much more diverse and engaging than tedious old England. Oh, wouldn't Father have something to say if he'd heard that? This freedom to say as I wish is exceedingly refreshing. After all those years in a boarding school where they watched you like a hawk, can anyone really blame me?

Today, I am feeling spontaneous. Perhaps tonight I shall attend the theatre? I shake my head vehemently—I did that just last week. It is time for something that can occupy me for a day or several at a time. Taking a walk seems a bit too mundane, until I decide on a purpose. Of course! I wonder why I didn't think of this before, and then rush to get ready.

Given that my apartment is closest to Place de la Concorde, I have settled on taking a day to explore the shopping district. Champs-Élysées is rumored to be the very best, at least according to girls at Spence who actually had the time to go there. No one ever seemed to grasp the concept that the fact that my mother briefly lived here has nothing to do with my getting to visit. True, I have ventured this way a few times in my life, but for the most part that consisted of sitting in the hotel room, bored, while my father entertained company or my mother busily rushed to her salon. That, in my opinion, is no way to enjoy this sort of place. It has to be taken in stride, and as I am rather impatient, they will have to be _big_ strides.

Excitedly, I don my coat. Time for an adventure, if only of minimal proportions. Ah, well. Can't expect to conquer the world every single day, now, can we? If that were the case, even I would run out of ground to cover at some point.

I rush out the door, securing the lock with the key I keep around my neck. It can't be past noon, and I have no intention of returning home until the sky is completely dark. Oh, joyous freedom! Everyone kept saying, as if it made some sort of difference, that living on my own was going to be too much for me to handle. I would surely, people whispered just loudly enough for me to overhear, come crawling back to my family, to the safety and security of their unyielding ways. Right. I should like to see that very much, because from where I stand, I have never been better. Once my inheritance was secured, I had not a worry in the world. Of course, it isn't as though I can gallivant about without a _single_ care, but I have learned enough to be able to ensure everything is kept in order. Today, it is. I am fully ready to take on all that Paris has to offer me.

Once down the steps, I breeze along the sidewalk, not bothering to catch a hansom or anything of the sort. Today, I shall be in total control of where I go and when I get there. Besides, Champs- Élysées is hardly considered far from where I live. I have seen it briefly, in passing, on my way to and from other locations, but cannot honestly say I have ever had the chance to explore it on my own, much less dedicate an entire day to it. It is barely visible from my position among the crowds of people coming and going early this afternoon. The weather is absolutely perfect for this kind of an outing, and I have never felt more airy or fresh in my life. My dress, a forget-me-not shade of blue, sports sleeves that bare all of my forearms, and I feel quite daring. Someday very soon, I shall act on my promise to aquire trousers. For now, this is enough.

I turn onto a row of shops and fight the urge to make some absurd sound of happiness. Surely my foolish grin is already enough to give me away, but I cannot seem to make myself care. As far as the eye can see, colorful boutiques line the streets, and people come in and out every second. Women on outings, stopping for a treat at the bakery, perhaps, or families indulging their young children in a new toy or two from the shop on the corner. Twirling my parasol gaily, I stroll down the closest row and begin looking through the windows. The stores in England are _nothing_ compared to these. Everything is so forward, almost ahead of its time, at least to someone such as myself who is accustomed to living across the sea. Of course, it is common knowledge that what is in vogue here will be the height of fashion in London months from now, once word gets across, I suppose.

On a whim, I dart into a dress shop whose name I forget to note. It is a quaint little place, with several eye-catching shades of garments. Drab, it is not. The owner is more than likely in the back taking care of stock, as I can hear someone moving around in another room. I browse through the selections, taking a particular liking to a violet-hued number. The skirt is noticeably more formfitting than is the norm, and the sleeves come to just above the elbow, with delicate ruffles of a lighter purple trailing around the cuff. The neckline is rather daring, with a clever bow placed at an angle on the right side. The bodice slopes downward into the skirt, and I find myself very adamant about the prospect of trying it on. It's like nothing I've ever worn or owned before; therefore, I must have it. The shopkeeper, by now, has entered the general vicinity, carrying a few boxes of hats. He places them on the countertop and approaches me with a sincere smile.

"_Bonjour, mademoiselle,_" he greets in a slightly lower voice than I was anticipating. "Have you found anything that has caught your interests?"

"As a matter of fact, I find this dress here to be extraordinarily appealing." I grasp the skirt lightly and wave it toward him. "Is there any possibility of trying it on before I purchase it?"

"Of course, of course!" the man's eyes light up. "It is an honor to have people who wish to try on my wares. Right this way." He leads me, as well as my soon-to-be new dress, to the back where a line of soft pink doors are located. "This one is vacant," he muses, opening the third one down. Sure enough, behind the other two, I can hear soft mumbles of ladies who are also trying out new styles. I smile in the most genuinely friendly manner I can. Ever since I moved here, that seems to happen quite often.

"Thank you. I'm sure I'll be most pleased." With that, he gives me a polite nod and departs for the sake of privacy.

I shed my current outfit and drape it over the chair that has been placed inside the room for comfort. Kicking off my boots and removing my gloves, I continue to undress until I am in naught but my chemise. In this lighting, it has a rather pleasing effect. I allow myself to take a few glances in the mirror and angle myself experimentally. To be completely honest, I never understood what people saw in me, especially with friends like mine. Obviously, there was never any comparison with Pippa. With her striking contrasts, and those eyes, the very color of the dress I am about to put on, it was nearly impossible to feel like anything next to her. I loved her dearly, of course, but there was always that quiet feeling of being in one's shadow. There is a difference between sheer beauty and sexual appeal, you see, and while I _may_ not be lacking in the latter, the former is what I truly desired. Even the way men look upon you is noticeably different. When Pippa would enter a room, it was almost as though they were in awe. At dances, the very sight of her would cause the brawniest of men to sport foolish smiles, as though they were no older than seven. Everyone wanted to be near her, simply for the sake of gazing upon her. Men gazed upon me, I suppose, but certainly not in the same way—or region, for that matter. While it is, in some form, a compliment, it becomes tedious to see the same expression of lust over and over. People looked at Pippa and thought of wooing her, or simply sitting next to her watching her play piano or do something else perfectly feminine. People look at me and think of unbuttoning the back of my dress. This, I know for a fact, because some have been so tasteless as to say so loud enough to be heard.

Gemma is another story entirely. She would never have heard me say it to her face, but every time she began railing on herself, going on and on about how she was awkward and plain or funny-looking, I considered giving her a good kick. She may be a physically intimidating person, to _some_. It isn't as though she's some freakish giant of fairy-tale proportions. She's just Gemma. Her golden-red curls, like fire spun into hair, were always the object of my envy—that, and her brilliant eyes. She has no idea how beautiful she is all-around, especially when she shows some confidence. When she stands straight and shows the world that feisty disposition we all know so well, she positively glows, to the point of outshining anyone standing near her. She is such a rare sort of beauty, after all, for I can count on one hand the number of redheads I've encountered in my life. She, of course, was lucky enough to be blessed with the happy medium of beauty and _beauty_. She looks like the subject of a painting of some wild wood fairy, and yet, there is something more. Being me, I can appreciate all forms of female appeal. I have seen Gemma in nothing more than undergarments. Though I can honestly say I never harbored any such feelings toward her, even I could acknowledge that her future husband is going to be a very lucky man. Enough said.

Taking a moment to forget myself in nostalgia and the like, I continue swaying gently in front of the mirror. I find I like the way my hair looks very much, as stray ringlets are coming loose from my updo in a rather alluring manner. The light catches it and gives it an almost white glow, though not to the extent of being the color of my skin. The lace straps on my chemise give me an air of femininity I am usually hesitant to show. I enjoy being ladylike, to a degree, but one could not describe me as _soft_. However, here, standing next to this chair, I can almost beg to differ. It is something I cannot quite articulate, but the look is strongly reminiscent of Pippa's sort of beauty. She was like innocence and flowers and femininity all combined and personified. Perfection. I would not go so far as to say that about myself, but it may very well be the closest I've ever come.

As I draw in a shallow breath, I am aware of something, though I don't know what. Then my door is thrown open.

I see him in the mirror before I actually turn, so I catch a quick look at the picture of shock on my face. I whirl around, but somehow do not register the need to cover myself immediately. Appalled, I stand there, wondering what business this sudden intruder has in a women's' dressing room.

His face burns bright red and he shoves one hand over his eyes.

"Forgive me! I—I—you see, I…"

"Yes, well, get on with it," I say impatiently, one hand on my hip. Keeping his hand across his face, the man angles himself a bit away from me and takes a deep breath.

"I'm so sorry, I apologize a thousand times. I'm still relatively new working here, and when Monsieur Badeau asked me to fetch him the new shipment of ribbons he was keeping in one of the spare rooms—I forgot to check that I was in the right place to begin with, I was acting in such haste…" He is somewhat hard to understand with his voice catching constantly. I sigh.

"So you threw open my door, correct?"

At this, he flushes yet again and drops his hand, then instinctively thrusts it back up. "On my honor, it was an accident—I feel atrocious even thinking about it. Next time I shall knock even if it is a broom closet."

"That is an excellent philosophy to live by." Between railing him with sarcastic jibes, upon getting a closer look, I can see that he is in fact relatively young. He cannot be older than twenty-one, at the very most. At least that proves his story holds water and he isn't just some sexually depraved loon who preys on women in dressing rooms. I cannot tell what color his eyes are, but his hair is a deep shade of brown. The lamplight picks out strands of gold, and that is about all I can tell given his current position.

"How's this for an idea?" I ask, thoroughly enjoying giving him hell for his mistake. "Why don't you back out of the dressing room so I can properly dress?"

"Of course, of course!" He leaps backward as he speaks.

"Wait." I smile in spite of myself. Poor boy. I hope he realizes I'm just being Felicity. "As penance for your unforgivable crime of breaking into my dressing room, you may stand there and give me your opinion on this garment I am considering."

"That sounds fair to me," he says slowly, still looking deliberately elsewhere. He shuts the door behind him, and I can hear him shuffling a ways down the hallway, muttering to himself the entire time.

Quickly, I wiggle into the dress after undoing the snaps on the back. It slides onto me with ease, and the softness of the material is lovely. I reach behind, a skill I have perfected over the years, and close the back on my own. I take a moment to adjust it so that it falls just right, fluffing the bow and turning side to side. This is…_new_. I remember myself and glance in the direction of the socially inept boy.

"Are you ready?" I call. After a moment, a faint "yes" can be heard, so I sweep the door open with a flourish and step outside where he is waiting. "Well, what do you think? And be brutal, there are plenty of other shops in this district if this makes me look completely silly."

He seems to consider me, looking almost critical, for lack of better word. I watch with interest as he circles me, visibly mulling it over in his head. I would be lying if I said it didn't surprise me. Generally, the response I receive is one of almost a rapturous look of lust—usually directed somewhere around my breasts. This one is entirely unexpected. I fold my hands across my front and wait. After several long minutes, he returns to face me and cocks his head to the side.

"If you don't think me too forward—"

"Please." I hold up one hand. "Of all people, I am the least you should be concerned about offending with forwardness. An honest opinion will suffice, thank you."

"Very well." A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "I think that the shape is especially flattering to you. It compliments the contours of your body. As you can see, the cut of the dress is significantly more formfitting than most styles today, and it does you justice. Your figure is slender, yet womanly, which is something of a rare find. You know better than I do that it is generally one or the other."

I nod, speechless.

"The color, especially, is what I'm fond of. One might not think such a vibrant shade of purple could look natural against your coloring, but I maintain that it does. Your complexion and hair are both quite fair, but the flamboyancy of the color you're wearing doesn't overshadow them as, say, a bright orange would." He nods, and then looks at me expectantly. "So that's my opinion."

"How—" I pause, and think to find the right choice of words. "Where did that _come_ from? You barge in there sounding all forms of awkward and inept, and then you pull this out."

"Well, I'm an artist." He shrugs. "I notice these things. I make it my business to. It's something I've been working on since I was young. It comes naturally."

"An artist?" I cannot tell if he is being facetious. "If that is so, why are you working in a clothing store?"

"Supplies and canvases don't buy themselves," he says, grinning. "Besides, working in this kind of environment gives me inspiration. There is a lot to look for, to look at. People, clothing, lighting…it keeps me happy."

I mull this over, turning lightly from side to side before I remember myself. I am bold, to be sure, but there is a fine line.

"How awful of me! I haven't even properly introduced myself. You must think me a right fool."

"No more so than someone who barges in on women getting changed," he answers sheepishly. "And the fault is mine; I should have made introductions as soon as…well…" he pauses. "We could just call this an exception. The circumstances, after all…"

"Quite right." I nod vehemently.

Solemnly, he extends his hand. "Johannes du Rone at your service."

At this, I let out a half-giggle before I can stop myself.

"Yes, I know," he sighs. "My family is of mixed heritage, French and Scandinavian. Seeing how neither parent would yield to the other and just have my name be completely French…"

"Oh, no. Forgive me, that was unacceptable of me." I try my best to look earnest, before adding, "Felicity Worthington."

"Miss Worthington." He makes a rather bold move and shakes my hand like a man's.

"Mr. du Rone," I fire back, reciprocating the gesture. It is a rare day indeed when I encounter someone on my level of cheekiness. I am about to turn to leave when he stays my hand and gives me that same curious look.

"If you don't mind, and you don't appear to be the kind of person who would seem to," he begins with a strange smile, "if you ever feel like lending yourself as a subject to one of my paintings, I would be entirely grateful. You are quite beautiful."

"Thank you, and I shall take that into consideration." I withdraw my hand. "And I thank you once more for your advice—I believe I shall purchase this fine garment straightaway."

"As you should," he replies, looking very serious. "And I should really see about locating those ribbons. Monsieur Badeau is likely thinking I met some untimely end by now."

"If you ever walk in on me again, you will."

His eyes widen in shock before he realizes that I am, yet again, speaking in jest. People really do seem to take my dry sarcasm as solemnity. No wonder everyone thinks I am such a condescending girl! This sudden revelation spurs me into laughter, and I re-enter the dressing room to get changed and purchase my dress.

It is, after all, an exceptionally memorable shade of violet.

**Well, this chapter certainly made up for what the other lacked in length! I'm writing the other one as we speak, and let me just say, this is a lot of fun. I'm going to have to ask that if you read, you review, because suggestions at this point are greatly appreciated so that I know what to change, add, include, take out…**

**Till next time!**

**-Katie**


	3. Chapter 3

Newly purchased raspberry ice in hand, I stroll gaily down the boulevard, taking care not to impale anyone with my parasol. It seems almost pointless to keep it open, considering the fact that sunset is beginning to form on the horizon.

Now that I have been occupying my no-longer-new apartment for almost two months, I am more lax with when I return home. Despite wanting to be as adventurous as possible, it is simply impractical to remain out after dark when unsure of one's surroundings. Currently, I know the area about as well as the back of my ungloved hands--sweet liberation!

Stepping to the side to avoid trampling a small girl of about five, I take another bite of my treat and glance behind me to watch her go. Her mother and father, arm in arm, watch from a safe distance with looks of mutual amusement. Her golden ringlets fly behind her as she skips down the path, making up a song about how she loves her doll.

"She's lovely," I call, giving the couple a soft nod. They smile congenially and respond with quiet thank you's, and I resist the urge to tell them that their daughter reminds me of Polly, with her carefree manner and laughter like bells. After a respectful pause, the girl's parents revert their attention back to their charge, who has gained quite a lead over them. Soon enough, they catch up to her and retreat into the distance, and I in turn wheel about on my heel and continue onward.

Impatiently, I pull my parasol closed and loop the handle over my forearm, holding my ice with the other. People are just now coming out of their homes to enjoy the coming of dusk--a social hour for all. Café's are lit all down the streets, and groups of people gather at tables with drinks and pastries to pass the time with clever anecdotes and jokes. Near the center of all the action, there is a fountain where couples and friends sit on the edge or on the benches surrounding it. I make my way towards it, as the angle it faces gives one a lovely view of the impending sunset.

I gather up my skirts and seat myself on the edge, allowing myself to people-watch. Several girls are congregated on the other side, giggling and twirling their own parasols. They remind me so much of my friends and I, so eager to seize life and enjoy it for all it was worth, before we all parted ways. One finishes a joke, and the other three erupt into raucous, unbridled laughter. I catch myself smiling before turning back to see what else this area has to offer. To my diagonal right, something catches my eye, simply because it is a literal explosion of color. After doing a double-take, I realize it is a canvas propped on an easel. I abandon my empty ice cup into a nearby rubbish can and casually glide over. My eyes fix themselves on the painting of the sky, with an entire spectrum of hues splashed across it. It is accurate, to be sure, but it is not conventional. The colors blur together, taking their own direction, rather than being precise and perfect as we were always taught in art class. I prefer this method better--it comes across as so much more natural. After all, why waste time trying to perfect something that is already flawless? Too late, I realize I am staring.

"Shall I take your intense fixation on my canvas as a compliment?"

"Oh!" I startle and whip my head upward, recognizing Johannes after a split second. "Why, hello! Fancy seeing you here!"

"I come from time to time when the weather interests me." He gives me a lopsided grin and twirls his paintbrush between two fingers. Next to him on the side of the fountain is a palette that has been ravaged by paint and color. A satchel sits at his feet, half-opened to reveal extra sheets of canvas.

"This is a lovely painting," I say without thinking, reaching a hand out to touch it. Gently, he swats it away.

"It isn't quite dry yet. I wouldn't want you to sully your hands or dress." Johannes's face takes on a pointed look and I roll my eyes. It isn't as though I haven't got endless other outfits at home, after all.

"I'm more careful than _that_," I retort. "And anyway, I don't care. A little paint never harmed anyone." At this, he looks surprised.

"I cannot say I've ever spoken to any other women who share those principles…most are terrified of looking even a hair out of place."

"That is tedious and pointless." I flop backwards onto the bricks around the fountain and lean on my arms. "I had enough of that in boarding school. Looking perfect never did anything for anyone."

"Did it not help to attract the most refined and distinguished gentlemen as suitors?" I can tell he is trying not to burst into laughter, so I do it for him.

"Please! Half the men who came around in London were ancient old barristers who wanted some young, fresh arm candy to show off at the social events. Besides, that sort of thing is overrated."

"Were you not able to secure a marriage?" Johannes asks in the same cheeky voice, and I shoot him a most unconvincing glare.

"I shall never be married." I say it as a fact, not an opinion, and swing my feet freely. He considers this while absentmindedly adding streaks of rose to his sunset.

"Why is that, may I ask?" he turns halfway so as to be facing both the canvas and myself to a degree. "If it is too personal, forgive me. It is rather a bold question for an acquaintance to ask."

"Johannes, we're friends," I say with some exasperation. "I come into your shop all the time to see what sort of new dresses you have, and on occasion we speak. It is not as though we are strangers who have only just met."

"This is true," he concedes, "but nonetheless, it is a personal question. Do not feel obligated to answer if it makes you uncomfortable."

"I simply find it cumbersome." I shrug. "I was never very centered on the idea of all this romance and wooing. You might consider me to be a skeptic, a cynic."

"Is that innate, or is there a reason?"

"Both, I suppose." I consider. "When friends would discuss the prospect of marriage, a recurring concept seemed to be the idea of encountering one's 'other half'. This always perplexed me, because never in my life have I felt the need to be _completed_. I do not feel as though part of me is missing, waiting to be found…I think I am whole in myself."

"That is an avant-garde mindset, but quite interesting." Johannes dips his brush into a dusky blue and adds to the top left corner of his painting. "And so marriage never interested you?"

"Never." I shake my head. "I much prefer the idea of having _friends_, you know…such a commitment seems so serious to me. Why spend the rest of your life with someone as a formality? It seems a waste. Besides, once a woman is married, the second task at hand is to commence with the children--and I have also never heard the maternal calling."

"You seem nice enough," he counters.

"Niceness has little to do with it." I rest my head at an angle on my shoulder. "I could be as nice as I pleased and still not a bit maternal."

"Also true." he gives me a once-over. "Truth be told, I think that could be the case. You seem a bit too much of a free spirit to tie yourself down out of tradition."

"Exactly." Satisfied, I nod. "I would rather spend my life alone, because even if it means solitude, I get to keep my freedom."

"You value your independence above all." This is a statement, not a question, and I am inclined to agree. "I cannot say I blame you. Being an artist is all I've ever wanted to do, yet my family spent the longest time trying to force me into an 'honorable trade'…an accountant! Can you believe that?" he made a face. "Even if I am never a rich man, I will be a happy man who has total control over his own life."

"Are we related, do you suppose?" I interject.

"Dear me, no." he gives me a wicked grin. "Imagine being related to the likes of you!"

"Excuse me!" I feign serious offence and turn, arms crossed.

"Oh, don't be that way, Flick." Johannes sets his brush down and sits next to me. I ignore him, thoroughly enjoying the game. Suddenly, I glance over my shoulder.

"Did you just call me _Flick?_"

"It suits you." he shrugs. "I know you've mentioned some of your friends call you Fee, which is nice enough, but I needed something more original than that."

"Ah." I resign myself to my new nickname and resume ignoring my friend. He waits several moments and shrugs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him pick up his brush once more.

"Have it your way," he says indifferently, going back to his painting. I am appalled and whirl around to demonstrate this.

"What?" he gives me an innocent look. "You clearly wanted nothing to do with me, and woe betide the person who tries to make _you_ do something you don't want to."

"Well, I never!" I harrumph and cross my arms over my knees. Grudgingly, I have to admit that this is true enough. Well, I'll admit it to myself. Johannes can just go on thinking he is right.

"Flick, it's getting dark," Johannes mutters after several minutes. Indeed, once the sunset is gone, the sky quickly turns to night and people have long since departed to well-lit café's or their homes.

"I suppose I should be going then," I say reluctantly, gathering my parasol and skirts. He gives me an alarmed look.

"What, alone?"

"Why not?"

"Never!" he quickly scoops up his art supplies and marches over. "What kind of a man do you think I am, that I would let a lady walk home in the dark unaccompanied? This is a lovely city, but danger is not nonexistent."

"Very well," I sigh. "I suppose you may keep me company on the way home. Will you be all right on your way to your apartment alone?"

At this, he scoffs and offers me his arm. "You've got to be joking me, Flick."

**I'll have the next chapter up soon--please review with your opinions! This story could go one of a few ways at this point!**

**-Kate **


	4. Chapter 4

"Flick, stop _moving_." Johannes lowers his brush once more, looking more vexed than the last time he had to stop—which, admittedly, was only about two minutes ago.

"I'm sorry, I dislike sitting still." I try to say this without moving my lips, which makes him crack a slight smile.

"The beautiful ones are always the most difficult to work with."

How right he is.

I am sitting as gracefully as possible on a chair in Johannes's apartment, which is quite typical-looking of an artist. Canvases are set up on easels ranging from makeshift to professional, and rags are thrown over every available empty space. Paint stains litter the floor, and the occasional shirt can be found draped over this or that.

"Can I at least talk to you? Not moving at all is frightfully dull, and I daresay I endured enough of _that_ at Spence."

"Very well," Johannes sighs. "I've already done your mouth anyway…I knew that would probably be the hardest part, as it never ceases moving."

"Well!"

"Please do not tell me you didn't see that coming." He reaches for his palette. "Anyway, I never said it was a bad thing. I find you most entertaining."

"Entertaining?"

"Most women these days hardly say anything, and when they do, it is so obvious it is all memorized, proper…a formality. I like that you say what comes to mind…and what's more, that you have a mind for such things to come to."

"Well, in that case, I'm glad to be of such amusement to you." I smirk softly and wait for it.

Johannes scoffs. "You are impossible."

"Delightfully so."

He rolls his eyes and laughs, long used to my antics by now. "On another note, I've another model in mind I'd like for you to pose for me with. The two of you would be lovely for my new idea."

"Intriguing." I cock my head. "What is her name?"

"Simone." He adds more pink to his palette and focuses on some minor detail before straightening to look at me. "You will either get along famously with her, or you will not."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"It just depends on how you get on with other people. I haven't actually seen you interact with anyone your own age besides myself, so I cannot say for sure. You do have similar senses of humor, though." He glares at me. At this, I respond with a wide-eyed, 'who, me?' look.

"Those lovely ocean-blues shan't fool me," Johannes laughs. "You are the very picture of innocence with your golden hair and rosebud lips, but I know otherwise."

I shrug. "Can't judge a book by its cover, even if it's the prettiest one you've ever seen."

"You are so full of yourself." He rolls his eyes and adjusts his canvas, which has tipped slightly. "But at least you're finally sitting still."

I stick my tongue out at him, a shamefully unladylike display. He responds in the most mature fashion possible—sticking his back out at me.

"What did they teach you at that Spence place?" he mutters, going back to his painting.

"Grace, charm and beauty, my friend." I straighten like a needle and give him a crooked smile. With Johannes, it is too easy.

_____________

Several days later, I am most anxious to meet this Simone character. Now that I think of it, I'd be anxious to meet anyone my own age and gender. Not that anyone could come close to replacing Gemma or Ann—or Pippa. I remind myself that I am not looking for a substitution, only a new addition.

Johannes has promised to meet me with my potential new acquaintance by the fountain, where we like to converse when the weather is exceptionally favorable. I sit upon the tower of bricks around the water, angling myself so that I can watch the drops form rings in the pool. So many form at once, like a song, casting circles and dissolving under the surface. I reach forward to touch one, causing a reaction of my own in the fountain. The water responds to my fingertips gently, and from behind me my hand is lightly batted.

"What have I told you about playing here unsupervised?" Johannes gives me a lopsided smile and gestures with a grand bow to his companion. "Miss Worthington, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Miss Simone Chevalier."

"Miss Chevalier." I make a polite curtsy while attempting to see what I'm dealing with. She is eye level with me when I dip the few inches, and while the set of her mouth is composed, conveys a certain___je ne sais quoi. __I have known her all of a minute and already I have concluded that boring, she is not. _

_ "Mademoiselle Worthington." She returns the gesture with a curtsy of her own. _

_ "Tedious formalities." I wave the name away with my ungloved hand. "Please call me Felicity."_

_ "Very well, you may call me Simone." She fans herself lightly. "You've a lovely sense of style. That dress is most becoming on you." _

_ The dress to which she is referring is none other than the forget-me-not violet, and I twirl the skirts lightly with my fingers. _

_ "Thank you. Johannes convinced me to purchase it." _

_ "Ah, he has a talent for that sort of thing." Simone breaks into a genuine smile. "Artists are most interesting people."_

_ "That they are." I nudge him lightly with my elbow. _

_ Simone's eyes, a color Johannes would likely refer to as 'autumn', rest on me briefly before flitting to the ice shop on the corner. "Shall we, friends? I think a treat is in order on this lovely day." _

_ "I knew I was going to like you." I flash her a smile of my own and lead the way. _

_Ah, no excuse for not updating this sooner. I apologize. I need some feedback, as this could go one of a few ways at this point. Thanks for reading!_


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